


it still looks like summer

by peeves



Series: mending [2]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: 5x08, Gen, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-16 01:47:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3469877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peeves/pseuds/peeves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>what i'd love to (but probably never will) see in 5x08<br/>scenes go as follows:<br/>1) ian x fiona<br/>2) ian x lip<br/>3) fiona x mickey<br/>4) ian x mickey<br/>5) fiona x lip</p>
            </blockquote>





	it still looks like summer

Fiona heard the flush from the kitchen, followed by heavy steps down the stairs. 

“Ian—” she called after him. He slammed the door, not bothering to look back. Pulling her sleeves over her hands, she sighed and followed Ian outside into the cold, ready for same conversation for the third time in the last two days.

It was that time of the year where it looked like summer and felt like denial. Everyone insisted on dressing for weather that was several degrees warmer, ignoring their visible exhales that signaled the shift into winter.

She found Ian sitting in the backyard next to the crumpled, deflated pool. Shivering, she tried to smile sympathetically. “Flushing your pills again?”

Ian ignored her, picking at the arm of the lawn chair, dragging his fingernails over the plastic. 

“You _know_ that’s what—”

“I’m not Monica.” _Stop telling me I’m like Monica_.

“You’re—”

“I’m _not_ Monica.” _Stop telling me I’m like Monica_.

“Ian, I’m just saying, you’re—” 

“Stop telling me what I am! How would you know, huh? You’re not me. The cops, the doctors, you, even—” he stopped abruptly. 

 _Even Mickey_. Mickey, who wasn’t there to pick him up, who hadn’t been by to even see him for the last 49 hours and 37 minutes since he left the psych ward, not that anyone was fucking counting.

“None of you—” he stopped himself, then continued. “I don’t need those pills. I fucked up. People fuck up. _You_ fucked up. I don’t see people on your back about needing medication,” Ian spit out bitterly, digging his nail harder into the chair. 

Fiona listened with her mouth set in a hard line. She let out the breath she had been holding and tried again. “Ian…”

“I’m not Monica.” _Stop telling me I’m like Monica_.

“Well, you’re sure acting like her!” Fiona burst out, letting her frustration get the better of her. Ian went still, and refused to look at her.  

“Leave me alone,” he said calmly. Fiona opened her mouth to respond but Ian interrupted again. “Leave me alone, will you?” he repeated, finally looking at her. She could see the stubborn set of his jaw, the jut of his chin, and the plea in his eyes. She wrapped her cardigan around tighter, shrugged, and relented.

“Okay. Don’t stay out too long, you hear me?” She glanced at the sky. “I know it still looks like summer, but it’s colder now. Stay warm,” she reminded, and she left.

 _I’m not Monica._  

* * *

 Back in the kitchen, Fiona chewed on her bottom lip, considering her choices. She leaned her head back against the fridge and closed her eyes, feeling the frustration bubble inside of her. She could go to Gus and escape for a couple hours. Maybe a whole day. She could leave this all behind. Or, she thought as she straightened up, grabbed her beanie, and headed out the door, she could find Mickey. 

* * *

Lip came home, missing Fiona by a few minutes. Which was probably a good idea, or else he’d have to explain to her that he was back to make bank, since there wasn’t anyone in the house responsible enough to check the goddamn mail anymore. 

He dropped his stuff at the bottom of the stairs, and went to the kitchen for a beer. As he leaned against the counter, he saw through the window that Ian was sitting outside. After grabbing another beer, he headed to the backyard.

“Hey, you’re back,” Lip said, coming down the stairs.

Ian turned to look at his brother standing next to him. “Yeah. So are you.”

“Yeah, I need to uh…” Lip scratched the back of his head with one hand, holding two beers in the other. “I need to make about twelve grand or else I’m out.”

“Twelve grand? Good luck with that,” Ian responded, listlessly. Lip took a seat next to Ian on the other chair, and handed him a bottle. Ian seemed surprised, but took it anyways.

“Uh, is this going to fuck with your—”

“Didn’t take them.”

“You didn’t take your—” Ian silenced Lip with a look.

Lip cleared his throat, and Ian raised his eyebrows in question.

“You wanna tell me that I’m just like Monica too? You can save it, Fiona beat you to it,” Ian said bitterly, sipping from his beer.

“Nah,” Lip responded. “You’re nothing like Monica…except for being gay as hell, I guess.” Ian barely cracked a grin, and it disappeared as quickly as it came, but it was enough. 

“Just because you’re not Monica doesn’t mean you’re not bipolar though,” Lip continued, effectively shattering any warm feelings Ian was beginning to develop for his brother. 

“Fuck off,” Ian retorted tiredly. 

“Okay, we don’t have to talk about it, it’s whatever. Look. Um. Shit,” Lip backpedaled awkwardly. “When’s the last time we actually talked, man?” 

“A few months? Dunno.”

“Yeah. Shit. More than that, actually,” Lip admitted, grimacing and scratching the back of his ear. “I’m sorry I haven’t been around, with college and shit. When you had so much going on.”

For the first time in days, Ian started laughing, and it felt wrong but like relief at the same time. Once he started, it took him awhile to stop. Lip didn’t know whether to be concerned or laugh along, and opted for an uncomfortable smile. He knew the irony of his apology. _Name a single time I've let you down._

Finally, the laughing died down. “It’s whatever, man. You say that like I expected my big brother to be around or some shit. Lip here to save the day…” 

If Ian ever learned anything from Lip, it was to never have expectations. If you had expectations, you’d be disappointed. To avoid disappointment, avoid expectations. That was how Ian structured his life—not out of fear of disappointment, but on the stability that he could always count on himself. He didn’t need to expect anything from anyone else because he had himself. 

That was harder these days, with moments where he doubted himself, where every sign seemed to indicate that he was fucked up, somehow. Even worse when everyone jumped on the “Ian’s sick” train. “Ian needs help”, or “Ian needs to take his meds”. When did they become _his_ meds? Ian couldn’t remember the last time so many people paid so much attention to him.

Lip cleared his throat. “Yeah, alright, fair enough. Things have been pretty fucked.” _We used to tell each other everything_ , he wanted to say. But they both knew it wasn’t true. _We used to be closer_ , he tried again in his head. That sounded better.

“They weren’t always fucked though, right?” Lip pressed on. This was new to him, unfamiliar territory; for some reason, he wanted to impress his brother. Or get some sort of approval, some sort of positive reaction. Because even if Ian never expected Lip to be there for him, Lip did. And while Lip probably would have known if he paid more attention, it surprised him that Ian never needed him. 

“Yeah. I guess. I don’t know. It’s fine, man,” Ian said, facing Lip. There it was: there was something that reminded Lip of the times they used to talk, now only distant memories because so much shit had gone down in the last few months. (Shit was always going down, but with a change of environment and what happened to Liam, Lip let himself mark the last few months as particularly shitty.) Fuzzy as those memories were, Lip remembered that Ian had always been reassuring. Even in silence, Ian could communicate trust, care, and support with one glance. _It’s fine, man_. That wasn’t meant to be dismissive, it was meant to comfort. Even when the situation right now was crystal clear, that Ian needed help and Lip needed to try to help him, Ian was still the one reassuring Lip.

“Yeah, okay. If you ever need anything, whatever, just…do me a favor and let me know, alright? Anything I can do,” Lip insisted.

“You could get Fiona off my back,” Ian said, smirking at Lip. 

“Okay. I’ll do it,” Lip promised to Ian’s surprise. That was part of the reason he agreed so easily, because he knew it would finally pull a positive reaction from his brother. “And we’ll talk more, okay? I’ll try to be around more. We’ll just…play it by ear.” 

“Play what by ear?” 

“Things people play by ear, Jesus, Ian.”

This time, Ian smiled without a hint of bitterness. Lip knew Ian probably didn’t believe that he’d be around more, the same way Ian knew Lip made those promises mainly because making those promises made him feel better about himself. And that was okay.

* * *

The tidy appearance of the Milkovich house was foreign to Fiona. She walked up the stairs, scanning the front lawn and remembering the way Mickey dressed up for Ian’s visit, dress shirt tucked in and not a hair out of place. Mickey was growing on her, and she started to see what initially drew Ian to him. The constant cussing and rough exterior was more endearing than threatening after he revealed how soft he was on the inside. Ian and Mickey were opposites in that way, she thought. Ian had always been approachable and affable, but at his core he was stubborn and hard, never admitting vulnerability if he could avoid it.

She knocked on the door three times. Waited a few seconds, then knocked again. “Mickey!” She pounded on the door with her fist, taking some of her frustration out on the door, why won’t he open the damn door? She heard glass shattering and a thump, and what sounded like a groan before slow footsteps padded to the door.

Mickey yanked the door open, stumbling a bit and rubbing hard at his eyes. Fiona glared at her brother’s boyfriend who was currently an obvious, irritated mess, still dressed in the same clothes he wore to the psych ward two days ago.

“What the fuck?” he said.

Fiona narrowed her eyes at him and wrinkled her nose. “Shit, Mickey, you’re rivaling Frank here, you smell like shit. How much did you drink?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Mickey muttered, and stepped aside to let Fiona in. He followed her into the living room and stood there, rubbing his eyes. Fiona fidgeted with her beanie, unsure of how to proceed or how to treat Mickey. She hesitated to push too hard since she knew he was in rough shape from the last few days, and they weren’t necessarily friends. Screw it, she thought, and she shoved Mickey back a few steps. 

“What the hell??” 

“Where have you been?” She shoved him again, stepping closer. _Jesus, fuckin’ Gallaghers and their absolute disregard for personal space_ , Mickey thought, reeling from the push.

“Ian’s been back for two days askin’ for ya, where have you been?” she accused, glaring hard.

“Where the fuck do you think I’ve been?” he retorted incredulously, eyebrows as aggressive as ever. There we go, Fiona thought. There’s Mickey Milkovich. But then he hit the sofa and slumped down, head in his hands.

“S’not my problem he doesn’t want to stay here anymore,” he muttered.

“Are you kidding me? We’re still fighting about this?” Fiona asked, borderline pissed. Mickey lifted a shoulder as half of a shrug, and wouldn’t look at her.

“What is it?”

“S’nothing.”

“Come on, spit it out. It’s not that. What is it?”

Mickey thought about flashing lights and loud music, about seeing Ian for the first time in a few horrible, empty months. About Ian in black shorts and black eyeliner, draped over some old prick. About Ian straddling him, moving up and down, low voice in his ear. About the look in Ian’s eyes. Empty. Cold.

Then Ian in a yellow shirt. And if possible, even emptier and colder. There was no feeling there. No trust. Why should there be? Mickey betrayed him. Sold him out to the doctors, to his siblings. Mickey was the first and last person on his side and he betrayed him.

And even then, that wasn’t enough. He was never enough, never able to give Ian what Ian deserved, and God he fucked up. After all that they had been through, all that he put Ian through, when they finally had some moments of security, he should have realized earlier that both of them were blissfully in denial.

He finally looked up at Fiona, who was now calmer, and more concerned than frustrated.

“What is it, Mickey?” she prompted softly, reminding herself that Mickey was just a kid. Yeah, he was legally an adult, legally married, and a father to his own child, but he was still just a kid. A kid who went through hell in the last few days, thinking he lost Ian, then Yevgeny. Who came home to an empty house and lost both.

“I fucked up,” he croaked, and started jumping his leg. Fiona sat down next to him, balancing her elbows on her knees, exuding sympathy.

“Yeah, you did, a bit,” she agreed. “But we all did. Me most of all…you’ve done the most for Ian. You gotta know that. You brought him back when he left, when I…” she paused and sighed. “The point is, all along, you’ve been there. You’ve done more than me or Lip, and we both fucked up. That doesn’t mean we stop trying,” she explained.

“I was why he left in the first place,” he mumbled, fidgeting harder.

Fiona sighed, and ran a hand over her face. “You gotta stop doing that,” she said. Mickey didn’t respond, so Fiona nudged him with her knee. “Hey. Come on.” He stilled. She wavered again between keeping her space and reaching for Mickey, and then decided to go for it. She scooted closer and wrapped her arms around him.

Mickey jerked back a little and stiffened, but stayed still, letting Fiona hug him. She ran her hands over his hair the way she did with Carl or Debbie when they let her.

“I know you and Mandy probably never really got to be kids, but…that’s what you guys are, you know? You’re barely an adult, handling so much shit…you can’t be too hard on yourself.” As unfamiliar as it was, her touch was comforting, and Mickey finally relaxed and leaned in. “Not because you didn’t fuck up, but…because you have to keep going. Shit doesn’t stop because you screwed up. You don’t have that luxury,” she said, and shrugged with her arms still around Mickey. Then she let go so she could look him in the eye.

Leaning forward, she looked at him, eyes wide and sincere. “I am glad that he has you,” she emphasized carefully. Mickey looked away, slightly shaking his head.

Fiona sighed, and tried a different tactic. “Ian’s not taking his meds.”

Mickey’s head snapped up. “What?”

“Yeah, I thought…maybe you could try talking to him.”

“…You think that could work?” he asked, clouded with self-doubt. He didn’t remember Ian looking back to him before signing those papers, or nodding to reassure him, and Fiona didn’t remind him.

“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “But like I said, we gotta keep trying, right?” Mickey barely nodded, but that was enough encouragement for Fiona to push him off the couch. “Alright, come on, get changed. Into different clothes, Jesus you smell like hell.”

Mickey walked grudgingly towards the shower, mumbling under his breath about how Ian _likes_ the way he smells.

Fiona grinned, watching Mickey walk into his room. They didn’t need to be friends, Fiona realized. She didn’t need to befriend Mickey Milkovich. With the way Mickey loved Ian, Mickey was already family.

* * *

Their conversation began to slow when Ian became tired, and Lip noticed.

“Shit, it’s cold man, how long you been out here?” Lip asked. The two empty beer bottles sat between them.

“Uh, I don’t know…half an hour, maybe?” 

“Let’s head in, alright? It’s cold as fuck. Don’t want to get sick.”

 _Just because you’re not Monica doesn’t mean you’re not bipolar._ Ian nodded, and they headed back into the house. After opening the door, Ian stopped in the doorway. Lip wasn’t tall enough to identify what the hold up was by looking over Ian’s head, so he ducked down to peek from the side. He saw Mickey standing between the kitchen and living room with Fiona, looking around uncertainly. Fiona smiled at Lip, and motioned with her head for him to go outside.

Except he was already outside for the last twenty minutes, and it was cold as fuck. He didn’t want to stay outside, and pulled a face. Fiona only raised her eyebrows and tilted her head again more forcefully this time, and so Lip rolled his eyes and clapped Ian on the back.

“Alright, we’ll let you two talk,” Lip said, and shut the door behind him. Fiona patted Mickey’s shoulder encouragingly.

“I’ll be outside. Stay for dinner, okay?” she asked. Mickey nodded, and Fiona followed Lip outside.

Mickey smiled hesitantly at Ian, unsure of how to start the conversation. Ian stood in the doorway for a few more moments, staring at Mickey, before he walked straight past him and sat down on the couch, turning on the TV. Mickey followed and stood about a foot away from Ian.

He cleared his throat. “Um. Hey.”

Ian ignored him. _Just because you’re not Monica doesn’t mean you’re not bipolar._

“Ian?” Mickey tried again, eyebrows arched, flicking his attention to the TV and wishing he could shut it off with his mind.

No response.

_Just because you’re not Monica doesn’t mean you’re not bipolar. Shut up._

_Just because you’re not Monica doesn’t mean you’re not bipolar. Shut up._

_Just because you’re not Monica doesn’t mean you’re not bipolar. Shut up._

_Just because you’re not Monica doesn’t mean you’re not bipolar. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. SHUT UP._

Ian turned off the TV. “Why weren’t you here?”

Wordlessly, Mickey watched as Ian clenched his jaw, slightly shaking. Ian continued. “You were the _only_ one, the last fucking person that didn’t—that didn’t tell me I was fucked up.” _Just because you’re not Monica doesn’t mean you’re not bipolar._

Mickey knew he should probably be concerned with Ian’s anger, not relieved. Not relieved that finally, here, in front of him, was Ian. And Ian’s anger was palpable, familiar, finally within Mickey’s reach. Ian’s anger was something Mickey knew how to deal with.

But all of a sudden, the anger died. Mickey wanted to goad Ian into fighting him, back into familiar territory, but Ian was done for the day. He was exhausted from listening to Fiona, from his conversation with Lip, from being alive. It shouldn’t be this hard to be alive. _Just because you’re not Monica doesn’t mean you’re not bipolar._

“Thought you fucking left again,” he muttered, staring at his hands in his lap.

“Don’t be fucking stupid, I didn’t go anywhere,” Mickey retorted and sat down next to Ian, who leaned back against the couch again. He looked so tired.

After a few seconds of fidgeting, Mickey rolled his eyes at himself, grabbed his boyfriend’s hand, and held it.

“Look,” he said, staring at Ian out of the corner of his eye. “I’m not a fucking doctor or anything, I never knew anyone who had bipolar or whatever, but something’s wrong, alright?” Ian closed his eyes, and Mickey squeezed his hand tighter. _Just because you’re not Monica doesn’t mean you’re not bipolar._

“You gotta admit _something’s_ wrong. I mean, do you feel okay?”

“No.” After a few long seconds, Ian opened his eyes, staring straight ahead. “I feel tired.”

Mickey wrestled with his thoughts for a moment before deciding he was being fucking stupid, all nervous and shit for what? This was Ian. Sick or not, this was Ian. Mickey reached over and tapped Ian’s neck, and nudged Ian’s jaw to face him.

“Look,” he said again, this time holding Ian with his eye contact as he grazed a thumb over his jawline. “I’m sorry I let you think I left. I’m not leaving.”

Ian blinked once, twice.

“I’m not,” Mickey repeated.

Ian nodded, exhausted. Mickey didn't always say a lot, but when he did, Ian believed him. What other choice did he have?  _Just because you’re not Monica doesn’t mean you’re not bipolar._

“I’m tired. I want to go to bed,” he said. Would Mickey go with him? Did he have to ask? He didn’t think he had the energy to ask. 

“Okay, then let’s go to bed.” _Thank you._

Upstairs in Ian’s room, the two of them stood awkwardly next to Ian’s bed. Jesus, did everything have to be so damn hard?

“Oh come the fuck on, get in,” Mickey said, holding open the covers. Ian undressed and crawled in, shuffling towards the wall so there was space for Mickey to lie down next to him. This part was easy, because they had done this a thousand times. After a bit more shuffling, Mickey and Ian settled, facing each other with their legs tangled, feeling each other’s soft breaths on their faces.

“Where’s Yevgeny?” Ian asked.

“Uh…Svetlana took him. I think they’re crashing next door.” 

“You haven’t seen him?”

“Nah I haven’t…really seen him since…yeah. Do you want to see him?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, we’ll do that tomorrow when you’re less tired,” Mickey said. Ian took a deep breath and exhaled, closing his eyes.

“You smell good,” he murmured.

“Yeah well, Fiona says I smell like shit,” Mickey responded, grinning. _Knew it_.

“She’s wrong,” Ian mumbled, voice getting softer.

“Not always.”

Even on the brink of sleep, Ian knew what Mickey was referring to. _Just because you’re not Monica doesn’t mean you’re not bipolar._

“Mickey?” he asked with his eyes closed.

“Mm?”

“What if I _am_ bipolar?”

What if? What does that even mean, like what would change if he were bipolar? “What do you mean?”

_Just because you’re not Monica doesn’t mean you’re not bipolar._

“I don’t know,” Ian whispered.

Mickey didn’t have a response to that. In fact, Mickey didn’t really know what to say at all. So he did what he wanted to and knew how to do; he pressed even closer to the boy he loved, head shifting until his nose nuzzled Ian’s, right arm wrapping around him and running down his back soothingly over the covers.

The last thought in Ian’s head before he faded into unconsciousness was that even if he couldn’t depend on himself sometimes, even though he detested the idea of having to be dependent on anyone or anything else, he could do a whole lot worse than depend on Mickey Milkovich.

* * *

Fiona and Lip sat on the steps in the backyard, shivering.

“Can we go inside now? I’m pretty sure they went upstairs,” Lip complained.

“You’ve lived here all your damn life, since when were you so sensitive to the cold?” Fiona retorted, teeth chattering. “Guess the university heating is really spoilin’ ya,” she teased.

He could tell her, right now, that because she hadn’t been home lately, because no one checked the mail, he had to make twelve grand on his own. That if he didn’t, there would be no university at all. He could make her feel guilty and blame her for everything. But he let her think that he was back to check on Ian. In a way, he was.

“It’s kinda nice,” Lip said. “Being back. Having Ian back in the house. When’s the last time the three of us spent any time together?”

“I dunno, the pool party? What’s got you so nostalgic, huh?” Fiona laughed, elbowing her brother, then leaned against his shoulder. “Yeah, it’s nice. It’s nice to be a family again.”

“Ian asked me to ask you to get off his back,” Lip said.

“Yeah, I bet he did. I dunno…doing the same thing over and over again, expecting a different result each time…kinda stupid, huh?” 

“Yeah,” Lip agreed. “Pretty stupid.”  

Lip was shivering so hard that Fiona couldn’t comfortably keep her head on his shoulder. “Go put on a coat if you’re so cold,” she chided. 

“Nah,” Lip decided.

The leftover pool water shined, reflecting the stubbornly bright sun. When the water rippled just right, all the dead leaves and dirt were hidden by a reflection of the sky. It didn’t feel like summer, but if they ignored the cold, they could pretend it still was.

**Author's Note:**

> (peeves.tumblr.com) p l e a s e leave feedback. constructive criticism is appreciated too! 
> 
> i know nothing was actually resolved; the problems present in the beginning of the fic still exist at the end, except for ian and mickey's "fight". there's little to no development, and no change. but since i really do suck at subtlety, i'll assume that it was pretty clearly communicated that this was entirely about denial, while giving me a chance to explore these relationships.
> 
> (this was written BEFORE 5x08, but i still put it in the same series.)


End file.
